


No More

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-08
Updated: 2006-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry had a million reasons to stay away from Ginny.Written for the hpgw_otp 200 member challenge.





	No More

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks for OHGinnyfan for the beta!  Fluffy bunnies and pink hearts kind of fic!  


* * *

The sun, a perfect circle, hung daffodil-yellow in the sky. It lit the land in miraculous golds and oranges, turning even the shadows into things of air and light.

She stood ablaze in the glow, pale cheeks stained red, hair dancing in the shimmering brightness. He knew, somehow, that when he touched her she would burn him up, as if his fingertips were a match waiting to be struck. He was impatient for the flame and the scorch, for the touch that would make him rise as a phoenix, new and whole once again.

But he waited, stilling himself underneath the birch tree near the Burrow, content to watch her smile and laugh as she twirled the newest Weasley high in the air.

When he’d left her, nearly three years ago, he’d known there were at least 243 reasons why they couldn’t be together. He’d counted them up a million times, split them in half, divided them and then multiplied them so that they’d reached infinity. If he’d been honest with himself, he’d have admitted there were even more, starting with little-girl fantasies scrawled in loopy, black ink in a leather-bound book, and dark eyes turned a shade deeper than blood, from madness and hate. A boy left to fend for himself and dole out a revenge he didn’t quite understand; a girl wanting the same revenge and unable to give it. And it had all ended with a hurt man who hadn’t been sure he understood even the concept of the _word_ “love”, let alone the concept of the act.

He'd told her so, right before he'd left. She’d promised she understood, even as her eyes welled up and she’d turned her back on him, unwilling to see him do the same.

And over the course of the years, he’d watched those reasons melt away like ice-cream dripping down his hand on a hot day.

One shimmering afternoon at Hogwarts, she’d stolen two rainbow ice-pops as a _you survived detention with Snape celebration_ treat. As they’d sat by the steaming lake, the hot sun had melted the sugary snack into a kaleidoscope of rivulets streaming down their hands. She’d started tonguing the liquid from her own hands when he’d stopped her, his mouth eagerly licking it up, not wanting to miss even a drop of the sweetened water and the freckled flesh beneath it.

He laughed aloud at the memory.

When his reasons had dripped away like liquid ice, _this_ time he let them splash to the ground, until there was nothing left but a woman, waiting, and a man, returning.

Her face turned towards him. From his far away vantage point it was unreadable save for the perfect ‘o’ of her mouth.

The child in her arms squirmed uncomfortably out of the too tight grip now holding onto his waist. Absently, still facing towards the tree, she let the little one go. In what looked as if it were almost an afterthought, her head turned slowly to watch the littlest Weasley scuttle indoors.

He moved then, keeping his eyes trained on her, as her own tilted down, her eyelashes creating fans upon her freckled cheeks. He grinned secretly, his heart thumping, as she smoothed her hands over her hair and then down the front of her shirt, keeping her eyes cast upon the ground.

He stopped in front of her, knowing she would have to tilt her head up to meet his eyes with her own. She smelled familiar, something sweet, something flowery, something natural and woody. He reached out to grasp her hands firmly in his, feeling a slight tremor rush through his body at the contact. Her lips tipped up, then her head.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes were cinnamon-sweet and knowing. They crinkled at the corners.

“No more?” she said, her eyes searching his.

He smiled. “Not a one.”

The end.  
The sun, a perfect circle, hung daffodil-yellow in the sky. It lit the land in miraculous golds and oranges, turning even the shadows into things of air and light.

She stood ablaze in the glow, pale cheeks stained red, hair dancing in the shimmering brightness. He knew, somehow, that when he touched her she would burn him up, as if his fingertips were a match waiting to be struck. He was impatient for the flame and the scorch, for the touch that would make him rise as a phoenix, new and whole once again.

But he waited, stilling himself underneath the birch tree near the Burrow, content to watch her smile and laugh as she twirled the newest Weasley high in the air.

When he’d left her, nearly three years ago, he’d known there were at least 243 reasons why they couldn’t be together. He’d counted them up a million times, split them in half, divided them and then multiplied them so that they’d reached infinity. If he’d been honest with himself, he’d have admitted there were even more, starting with little-girl fantasies scrawled in loopy, black ink in a leather-bound book, and dark eyes turned a shade deeper than blood, from madness and hate. A boy left to fend for himself and dole out a revenge he didn’t quite understand; a girl wanting the same revenge and unable to give it. And it had all ended with a hurt man who hadn’t been sure he understood even the concept of the _word_ “love”, let alone the concept of the act.

He'd told her so, right before he'd left. She’d promised she understood, even as her eyes welled up and she’d turned her back on him, unwilling to see him do the same.

And over the course of the years, he’d watched those reasons melt away like ice-cream dripping down his hand on a hot day.

One shimmering afternoon at Hogwarts, she’d stolen two rainbow ice-pops as a _you survived detention with Snape celebration_ treat. As they’d sat by the steaming lake, the hot sun had melted the sugary snack into a kaleidoscope of rivulets streaming down their hands. She’d started tonguing the liquid from her own hands when he’d stopped her, his mouth eagerly licking it up, not wanting to miss even a drop of the sweetened water and the freckled flesh beneath it.

He laughed aloud at the memory.

When his reasons had dripped away like liquid ice, _this_ time he let them splash to the ground, until there was nothing left but a woman, waiting, and a man, returning.

Her face turned towards him. From his far away vantage point it was unreadable save for the perfect ‘o’ of her mouth.

The child in her arms squirmed uncomfortably out of the too tight grip now holding onto his waist. Absently, still facing towards the tree, she let the little one go. In what looked as if it were almost an afterthought, her head turned slowly to watch the littlest Weasley scuttle indoors.

He moved then, keeping his eyes trained on her, as her own tilted down, her eyelashes creating fans upon her freckled cheeks. He grinned secretly, his heart thumping, as she smoothed her hands over her hair and then down the front of her shirt, keeping her eyes cast upon the ground.

He stopped in front of her, knowing she would have to tilt her head up to meet his eyes with her own. She smelled familiar, something sweet, something flowery, something natural and woody. He reached out to grasp her hands firmly in his, feeling a slight tremor rush through his body at the contact. Her lips tipped up, then her head.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes were cinnamon-sweet and knowing. They crinkled at the corners.

“No more?” she said, her eyes searching his.

He smiled. “Not a one.”

The end.  



End file.
